


Something To Live For

by I_Am_John_Locked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Love, M/M, Multi, Mystery, Pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:25:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_John_Locked/pseuds/I_Am_John_Locked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pray that your loneliness will spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for."<br/>~ Dag Hammarskjold.</p>
<p>Post Reichenbach. Sad at first, but it gets better, I promise. Johnlock (Sherlock/John). Not much fluff at first, but later on... FLUFF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first Sherlock chapter fic, so it might be bad. The characters might be WAY out of character through this whole fic, so bear with me. So, I hope you enjoy this story! Goodbye for now!

Molly Hooper unlocked the door to her house and went inside. She set her purse down in an armchair and hung her coat up. She could hear noises coming from the spare room. “Sherlock…” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

The consulting detective had been living with her ever since his “death.” Molly now realized what John had had to live with. Sherlock was messy, unhelpful, childish, rude, arrogant, and a downright pain in the arse.

But, Molly loved him still, even after he had burned one of her favourite blouses for an “experiment.” Sometimes, she could tell why John liked having him around. Most of the time, she wanted to punch him in the face, but other times he could be nice to be with. She definitely wasn’t bored.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was _always_ bored. He would always complain about John not talking to him, and then he would realise that he can’t contact him.

Molly wondered what mad thing he was doing now. She was almost scared to go into the spare room, (Sherlock’s new room) for the last time she went in there, he was dissecting a live rat and putting its entrails in mustard.

She had just settled down with her tea and a book when a loud _CRASH_ sounded. She sighed, set the tea and book down, and went to see what had happened.

When she opened the door to the spare bedroom, she put a hand to her forehead in exasperation.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, looking rather dazed, blood trickling down his face, with a broken vase next to him.

“What are you doing? That was one of my favourite vases!” Molly almost shouted.

“I could tell. It’s been polished several times. Much more than a normal person would polish it.”

She frowned. “Then why did you smash it?”

“I was trying to knock myself out,” he stated, as if it were obvious.

“Why?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“Bored.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his head. “Nothing seems to be working. I’ve hit myself with a dictionary, I’ve ran headfirst into the wall, and I smashed that vase over my head. Maybe I don’t have the right angle. Can you try? Just hit me right in the back of my head,” he said, holding out a heavy-looking dictionary.

As much as she wanted to do it, Molly resisted, sighing. She paused for a moment, then asked, “Why can’t I tell him?”

Sherlock looked up at her, confused. “Tell who what?

“Tell John that you’re alive.”

“Oh. You know why. He could be killed.”

She shook her head again. “It’s killing him already. He looked dreadful when I ran into him at the grocery store earlier today.”

Sherlock looked at the broken vase. “I know. I saw him walk by out the window.”

“It’s been a month. Why would they be watching him still?”

 “I don’t know, but I’m not taking any risks. If he were to die…” Sherlock trailed off. He just couldn’t imagine losing John.

If Sherlock had a better knowledge of emotions, he would have known that John felt _very_ bad. Most of the time, he moped around Harry’s flat, (where he was staying for the time being) talking little or not at all. Harry was very concerned, and she hoped he would get over it soon. She wanted her brother back.

Sherlock sighed. Molly reached out to help him up, but he ignored her, getting up on his own. He was wearing a t-shirt. It wasn’t his taste, but all he had was a dress shirt and trousers when he came to live with Molly. T-shirts and jeans were the only things that were decently priced, so Molly got them for Sherlock instead of his usual dress shirts.

He brushed some glass off of his shoulder and wiped the blood off his face. “Do you have anything else that’s hard enough to –“

“I’m not going to let you knock yourself out.”

He crossed his arms and stuck his bottom lip out. Molly rolled her eyes and walked out of the room. Sherlock followed her, still pouting. “But Molly,” he whined, “I’m boooored!”

“Then go talk to Lestrade or something,” she said, sitting back down, grabbing her tea and book from the coffee table, and trying to ignore the adorable look on his face.

Oh, yes, Molly was still in love with him, even though she didn’t want to be. She had given up hope long ago, but Sherlock coming to live with her made it worse. Now she had to see him every day, and she was even more in love with him.

“I can’t go out, John might see me!”

“Then invite Lestrade over.”

“But Lestrade’s booooring!”

Molly ignored him, finding her place in the book, sipping her tea. Sherlock groaned and sat on the sofa across from her. After a few seconds, his eyes lit up and he went into the kitchen. He began pulling open cabinets and drawers until he found what he was looking for: A heavy frying pan.

 Molly heard a loud _CLANG_ come from the kitchen. She sighed and went to investigate.

Sherlock was on the ground, the frying pan in his hand. “Didn’t work,” he muttered thickly. Molly shook her head and snatched the frying pan from his hand. She put it up and looked down at Sherlock, her hands on her hips. “What?” he asked, his eyes distant.

“I’m telling him, she said, turning around and going to get her phone. She dialed John’s number.

“Hello?” a voice answered. It sounded very sad and dull.

 “Hi, John. I have something to –“ Sherlock grabbed the mobile from her and hung up. He slid it into his pocket with a satisfied smirk and turned away.

“Sherlock, I know you want to protect him, but… You _need_ to tell him.”

He wasn’t listening.

“Fine. If you won’t listen, maybe _he_ will. I’ll tell him in person.”

Sherlock turned around and grabbed her hands, looking at her with those pale blue eyes. This sent shivers down Molly’s spine, quickening her pulse and making her face turn slightly pink.

“Whatever you do,” he said in a pleading voice, pulling her closer, “don’t tell him.”

Molly pulled her hands away and crossed her arms, her face turning a deeper pink.

“Molly… Please.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant sociopath, had just said please. She knew how hard it was for him to say that. So, she sighed and nodded. Sherlock smiled. A genuine smile, not one of his trademark smirks.

“I’m going to visit him,” Molly said. “Do you have the address to Harriet’s flat? John’s been staying there ever since you ‘died.’”

“I do,” Sherlock said, getting a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote down the address and handed it to her, along with her mobile.

“Thanks. I’ll be off, then,” she said, putting on her coat and grabbing her purse.

“See you later,” Sherlock called as he headed down the hall to his bedroom.

 

~o~o~o~

Molly knocked on the door to the flat. Harry answered it and tilted her head. She had messy, shoulder-length brown hair and the same blue eyes as John. She wore a grungy t-shirt and yoga pants. “Who’re you?” she asked bluntly. Her breath stank of alcohol, and there were bags under her eyes.

“Molly Hooper. I work in the morgue at St. Bart’s. I’m a friend of John’s. I came to see him. “

Harry smirked lazily. “Oh, right. John’s told me lots ‘bout you,” she said, her words slurring together. “Come inside.”

Molly stepped inside the flat, and the smell of alcohol hit her full in the face, much worse than Harry’s breath. It was very dirty inside, beer cans covering the coffee table, armchair, and sofa.

Harry picked up one of the beers and took a swig. She belched, walked to the entrance of the hallway, and called, “JOOOOOOHNNY! Your girlfriend’s here!”

John swore loudly.

Harry rolled her eyes. “He’s been in a foul mood ever since that Sherlock bloke kicked the bucket. How did he go again?”

“Suicide.” Molly said stiffly.

“Blew his brains out?” Harry asked, gulping more beer.

“No, he jumped.”

“Pitched himself off a building, eh? A shame. He deserves a conk on the head for what he’s done to my brother. Well, he got what he deserved. I think Johnny might kill himself soon. He’s very depressed. He’s not the same. I want the old John back. Not this miserable shell. I’ve tried getting him up to cheer him up, but he won’t even leave his room. Well, he goes to visit his mate’s grave every once in a while, but that’s it. He just went to pick up groceries and visit the grave this morning, so he’s in an even worse mood. It’ll be hard to get anything out of him. Good luck. He’s in the first room on the left.”

Molly nodded and went to the door of John’s room. She knocked tentatively.

“Bugger off,” came a muffled, hoarse voice. “I don’t need any sympathy, and I don’t care if he was dear to your heart. Just go home. Harry’s tired of visitors, and so am I.”

She opened the door and stepped inside. Just like the other room, it was very messy. Clothes were strewn all over the floor, and there were a few beer cans on the night stand, along with a tissue box. The rubbish bin was overflowing with used tissues.

John was in bed with his back to Molly. He had pulled the covers up over his head.

“John, I just want to talk,” Molly said.

“Please leave now.”

“How are things?” she asked.

“I’m doing great,” he said sarcastically.

“John.”

“Please. Just leave. Now.”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” Molly said, crossing her arms. She sighed, realizing that that was the dumbest thing to say.

John sat up and turned to look at her in disbelief. “Until I tell you what’s – Molly, my best friend committed _suicide_ last month! What do you think is wrong?!”

Molly didn’t say anything.

“I’m tired of people visiting me and trying to cheer me up. They haven’t had any luck. And they try to say they understand. They don’t. Well, maybe you do, Molly. You were in love with him, weren’t you?”

She still didn’t speak.

“You feel terrible, don’t you?” he asked, desperate to find someone who shared his pain.

Molly paused. “Actually… I don’t know… I gave up on him a while ago, so… I-I just don’t feel as bad as you.”

John sighed. “Nobody does.”

Molly frowned. “Harriet feels very bad. She says you’ve changed. She say’s you’re a miserable shell now. She wants the old John back.”

“Well, Harriet’s drunk. _Very_ drunk. And I’m having a hangover. So it would be really nice if you would just leave us alone and come back when we haven’t been drinking.”

“She was sobering up when I talked to her,” Molly lied. Harry was absolutely _plastered._

“Leave. Now. Just go,” John curled up and rolled over so his back was to Molly.

Rage boiled up inside of her, and she exited the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

“ _Now_ look what I’ve done…” John whispered, tears spilling out of his blue eyes. He let out a shaky sigh and wiped the tears off of his face with a tissue. Soon, he began to fall asleep. As his eyes slid shut, he smiled, remembering that he had left the milk out.

 


	2. Alone

 

Sherlock waited impatiently for Molly to come back, pacing back and forth on top of the coffee table in his bare feet. He groaned. "Where is that woman?"

As if on cue, Molly stormed in, muttering angrily under her breath. She saw Sherlock on the coffee table and glared.

"Get your feet off of my bloody table!" she shouted. The fierceness in her voice startled Sherlock, who quickly jumped off. "What happened?"

"John was being as arse," Molly said. "He had been drinking. His sister was very,  _very_ drunk." She flung her coat onto the floor and threw her purse at Sherlock, who ducked. The purse hit the wall and fell, a tube of lipstick rolling out of it. Sherlock picked it up and observed it.

"Back to your regular colour, are you?"

She glared at him and snatched the lipstick from him. She threw it in the direction of the purse and sat down on the sofa, crossing her arms.

"Someone's feeling chipper," Sherlock muttered sarcastically, and Molly rolled her eyes.

"Why were you pacing on my coffee table?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I was bored, and I was waiting for you to get here. Oh, and I have something to tell you."

"Please don't tell me you broke another vase."

He looked shocked. "How do you know about that?"

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"…Just tell me what you wanted to tell me," she said, exasperated.

"I know when I'm going to tell John."

Molly straightened up. "When?"  _Please be soon,_ she thought.

"Next year."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. "N-Next year? I don't think John can last that long.

"Well, you'll have to help him. Visit him a lot, maybe even… No, scratch that last thought," Sherlock said, steepling his long, thin fingers under his chin in meditation. He took a deep breath.

"Maybe even what?" Molly asked, curious.

"… I was suggesting," Sherlock said softly, "that maybe you and John could build a relationship together."

"Wait a minute," Molly said, tilting her head. "John and I, building a relationship together? Like, dating?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. He shouldn't have said that. Now she would feel like she  _had_ to date John. "I mean, if you want to. It would be perfectly fine if you didn't."

Molly bit her lip, considering the thought. She loved Sherlock, but she didn't  _want_ to. Maybe dating John would take her mind off of Sherlock for a bit. "Hmm… John and I, a couple… He is nice-looking, isn't he?"

A very, very small and secretive part of Sherlock that he didn't know about agreed with her.

"He's kind, too. Well, right now he's not, but… I could help him…"

Sherlock gave her a fake smile.  _Bugger._

"Yeah, I guess that could work. I'll visit him tomorrow," she said with a small smile. She looked at the clock. "It's getting late. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock."

And with that, she went off to her room. Sherlock sighed and put his face in his hands. "Why did I do that?" He frowned. "Why am I regretting it? I should be happy. John needs to let me go. More importantly, I shouldn't be  _feeling_ in the first place. But still…"

He felt dread creep up inside of him. He called for Molly.

"What?" She walked into the room in her pajamas, a skip in her step.

"I don't think you should start a relationship with John. I know it would help him let me go, but I don't think he's ready for that kind of relationship just yet."

Molly rolled her eyes at him. "Don't worry, Sherlock. He'll cheer up."

Sherlock looked at her uneasily. She took his hand in hers and gave him a reassuring smile. "He'll be fine. Don't worry. I'll make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," she said softly, peering into his luminous eyes. They were filled with worry and something else she couldn't see… something hidden…

Molly got up on her tip-toes and pecked Sherlock on the cheek. She scurried back to her bedroom, red-faced and giddy.

"What if he falls in love with her?" Sherlock asked himself, unfazed by Molly's peck. "…Why is that a bad thing?"

He walked into his bedroom and fell onto the bed. "I don't understand…"

Molly curled up under the covers of her bed, that weird feeling inside of her stomach. She had just… kissed Sherlock. She still couldn't believe that she, Molly Hooper, the little mouse, had mustered up the courage to do that. She sighed contentedly and drifted off to sleep, her mind cleared of all thoughts about John.

 

~o~o~o~

John sat up in his bed, panting and sweating. He had had another nightmare.

All of his nightmares were the same. Not Afghanistan anymore, but Sherlock. He kept dreaming about Sherlock jumping, the sound of his impact as clear as ever.  _CRACK._

He sucked in a breath and got up. He ran his fingers through his messy brown hair. He padded out of his room in his socks and went into the kitchen. Harry wasn't up yet. He made a cup of tea and went back to his room. He put the cup on the nightstand and climbed back into bed.

John was about to fall asleep when the door opened. Molly stood there, wide awake and grinning. A tired-looking Harry stood behind her, then stalked off when she saw the look on John's face.

"Hello, John," Molly said brightly. He sighed.

"Molly. I've already told you I'm tired of visitors. Please just leave me alone," John replied. He curled back up and pulled the covers up over his head.

"John, I'm just trying to help."

He ignored her.

She frowned and crossed her arms. "Would you like to go out for lunch later?"

"No," John answered immediately. He turned away from her.

"Come on. Don't you want some coffee or something?"

"I have tea right here, you know," he grumbled.

"You know what, John? This is pathetic.  _You're_ pathetic. You need to move on."

John sat up and turned to face her. "That's what everyone says. 'Oh, just let go; just forget about him.' Well, guess what? It might be easy for you to just let go and forget about it, but it isn't easy for me. He was my  _best friend_. I don't think I'll  _ever_  be able to do that if people keep pushing me. And don't try to say you understand, because you  _don't_.  _Nobody_ will  _ever_ understand."

Molly just glared at him, and he glared right back.

"Fine. Be that way. But let me tell you this: moping and sulking will definitely  _not_ help," she growled, turning and leaving, the door slamming shut once again.

"Good riddance," John shouted. He sighed angrily.

 

~o~o~o~

Sherlock was sitting next to the window, peering out at the busy street. He was trying to figure out who a person was by studying only their shows and ankles.

"Let's see… Black dress shoes, slightly scuffed; probably late to a business meeting, by the way he walks… Has a small cat… No, not a small cat, a medium-sized cat…" He sighed and looked at another pair of shoes.

"Ballet flats. Mmm, probably around three years old… On her way to ballet practice with her mum…"

He spotted a familiar pair of shoes, but didn't look at the wearer's face since he didn't want to ruin this little game of his.

"Casual shoes, covered in mud, recently got back from… the cemetery… he's got a bad limp…"

Sherlock looked at the man's face and tilted his head. He got up and went to sit on the sofa.

"BORED!" he shouted and crossed his arms. "Why is there nothing entertaining around here?!" He stood up and looked around. Molly was still asleep, even though it was time for her to go to work. She had seemed angry when she got back from seeing John the previous day. She had stormed in, yelled at Sherlock for leaving the milk out, and went to her room.

Sherlock didn't want to wake her up, but he was bored and needed to talk to someone. He wished he could talk to John.

He suddenly got an idea. He remembered how sometimes when John was gone, he didn't notice and he just kept talking to himself.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was back in 221B Baker Street, sitting in his chair, John on the sofa across from him. He opened his eyes and saw the doctor grinning at him from Molly's chair.

"Hello, John."

John looked at him sadly.

"So you can't talk back," Sherlock said, a little put off. "Well, you're only a figment of my imagination." He tilted his head a little. "I wish I could talk to the  _real_  John; you're not fun."

"Who are you talking to, Sherlock?" a tired voice asked. Sherlock looked away from John and saw Molly standing behind him.

"Oh, uhm…" He looked back at Molly's chair, but imaginary John was gone. "Myself."

She shrugged and sat down next to him. He turned to look at her. She looked dreadful. Her hair was very messy, and her eyes were red and puffy. Sherlock observed her for a moment before asking "What did John say to make you this upset?"

Molly shook her head and sighed, closing her eyes and leaning back. Her phone went off suddenly. She reached for it, but Sherlock snatched it up before she could get it.

"Text from John. He says: 'I'm sorry about yesterday. Do you still want to go and get coffee?'"

She moaned. "Tell him I'm  _really_ not in the mood."

Sherlock typed the message and sent it. A minute later, John replied. "He says: 'Are you sure?'"

"I'm positive."

He nodded and sent the message. The mobile went off again. "He says: 'I'm coming over."

Molly sat up straight and turned to him. "Hide. If you want me to keep it a secret, hide. I won't tell him."

Sherlock jumped up and ran into the hallway, opened the broom closet, and his in the back of it. He took deep breaths, trying not to panic.  _What if John spills something and looks here for cleaning supplies and he sees me?_ he thought.

After a little while, there was a knock on the door, and Molly answered it. "What do you want, John?" she asked tiredly.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me, Moll," he said, his blue eyes pleading with her.

"Don't call me that," she snapped.

"Call you what?"

"Moll."

"Oh… Well, will you forgive me, Molly?"

She sighed. "I don't know if I can. You're hopeless. You said it yourself; you can't let go. I don't really agree, and I know that someday you will. Even if you don't believe in yourself, I do. And so does Harry. I may be accepting your apology, but I'm not going to forgive you for what you're doing to your poor sister."

John just looked at her, then nodded slightly. He turned to the door and limped out. Molly frowned as the door shut quietly.

"Molly," Sherlock said, emerging from the closet, "since when did John start limping?"

She turned to him. Ever since your suicide. He said his psychosomatic limp came back. Didn't I tell you that?"

Sherlock frowned. "Must've slipped my mind."

Molly looked back at the door. "He left," she said shortly, and looked down. "I thought he would argue or something."

"Well, apparently he didn't feel like it," Sherlock said, going to sit on the sofa. Molly sat beside him.

"He confuses me."

"Yeah, he can be confusing, but you figure him out after you've lived with him for a while."

She sighed. A weird look crossed her face. "Speaking of that… Do you…" she trailed off, turning pink. Sherlock gave her an 'are-you-really-asking-me-that' look.

"You know I'm married to my work, Molly. I'm John's friend, and nothing more."

Molly studied him, then shrugged and crossed her arms. She was relieved Sherlock had said that. She had always thought there was something going on between them, but was always too nervous and scared to ask.

She sighed. "I just hope John doesn't feel _too_ bad..."

 

~o~o~o~

John limped all the way back to his sister's flat, which was a long way from Molly's. He didn't hail a taxi, since he needed to think for a bit. Plus, he was terrible at hailing taxis.

After what happened with Molly, John was ready to commit suicide.

He didn't want Harry to feel bad, but he also didn't want to be a burden. And he felt  _so_ alone. Even though he was staying with his sister, he still felt like there was nobody who could actually  _talk_ with him.

John had already tried to talk with Lestrade, but he was too busy. He was just grumpy when Molly visited, so he said things he wouldn't normally say. And when he tried to get forgiveness… Well, that didn't work. So, he felt like he was completely and utterly…

" _Alone_."

As he walked to Harry's, that word echoed in his mind.

" _Alone._ "

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the voice. It wasn't his. It sounded strangely familiar…

" _Alone._ "

It wouldn't stop.

" _Alone._ "

He reached the flat and fumbled with the keys. His whole body shook uncontrollably, and when he finally got the door unlocked, he almost fell over.

Harry was sitting at the kitchen table, poking her kung pow chicken around her plate. She looked up and saw John stagger in, pale as a ghost. She immediately stood up and helped her brother into a chair.

"John," she said slowly, "tell me what's wrong."

He shook his head, balling his hands into fists.

The voice kept saying that one word.

" _Alone._ "

"John," Harry repeated. He still didn't answer. She got a cup of water and dumped it on his head. That snapped him out of it.

"Wazzat?"

" _Alone._ "

"Tell me what's wrong, John."

He blinked a few times. "I dunno…"

" _Alone._ "

Harry put a hand on his shoulder. "I think you should get some rest, John."

He nodded. "Yeah. G'night, Harry."

"Night, John."

" _Alone._ "

That night, instead of the Sherlock nightmare, he had a nightmare about one word.

" _Alone._ "

 


	3. Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy! How is everyone? I hope you’re good. I know I am! :D Anyway, this chapter is kind of sad, so… be prepared, my little ones. And don’t forget to review, vote, like, rate, favourite, fan, any of that stuff! :D Well, bye! Hope you like this!

The next day, John woke up with a terrible migraine. He sat up, and the pain got worse. He winced and slowly rested his head on the pillows once more.

“ _Alone._ ”

He jumped. “Wha?” he muttered. Then he remembered his nightmare.

John now knew that the voice inside his head sounded like Sherlock when he was using his cold, cruel, insulting voice. In the nightmare, John was trying to figure out who had gotten inside his head. He compared the voice to Sherlock’s cold voice, and it was a perfect match.

Great. Now he had the voice of his dead best friend stuck in his head.

“ _Alone._ ”

He sighed.

“ _John, you need to go and get some fresh air,_ ” The Voice said.

John blinked. “What?”

“ _C’mon. Let’s go out for a walk. Just for a little bit. Maybe stop by the old flat._ ”

He tilted his head. It didn’t sound like a bad idea. He nodded and got up slowly. He got dressed and went into the sitting room.

Harry was on the sofa, watching crap telly. “Harry, I’m going out for a walk,” John said.

She looked over at him. “Okay. When you get back, I want to talk with you.”

He nodded and went outside. “Hmm… Where to go…”

“ _221B Baker Street. Say hello to Mrs. H. Maybe she has tea and biscuits,_ ” The Voice suggested.

“Good idea, Sher— …I mean, voice inside my head.”

He hailed a cab to the flat. When he got there, he knocked sharply on the door. Mrs. Hudson answered, grinning widely. “Oh, John, I’ve missed you! It’s been so lonely around here without you. What are you here for?” she asked.

“I’m just stopping by to check on the flat,” John answered, smiling back at her. She led him up to the flat and let him in.

“ _Go up to your room, John,_ ” The Voice said.

“I’m going up to my old room, Mrs. H,” John told her. He climbed the stairs and went into his room. It was just as he had left it. He guessed Mrs. Hudson hadn’t wanted to disturb it. He limped over to his desk and pulled open the top drawer. His trusty revolver was in it, dusty and lonely.

“ _Just like you,_ ” The Voice muttered coldly. “ _I think you should take it on your walk. Just for protection. You never know when you’ll need it._ ”

John hesitated, then picked the gun up and put it in his pocket. He had completely forgotten it when he was moving out. He then went back downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson was leaning against the wall, crying softly, so John comforted her for a bit. After he had gotten her calmed down with a cup of tea, he bade her goodbye and departed.

He limped to the local park and sat down on one of the many benches, watching other people walking their dogs, or pushing strollers, or holding hands. He wished he had someone to walk with.

“ _Let’s face it, John. Nobody wants to walk with you. Nobody ever will,_ ” The Voice said.

 John sighed and murmured, “You’re right.” He absentmindedly reached into his pocket and withdrew his revolver.

He observed it, turning it in his hands over and over. People passing by him either gave him a funny look or quickened their pace.

John knew he shouldn’t have taken the revolver out, but he didn’t put it back. He remembered when he shot the taxi cab driver to save Sherlock’s life. He hadn’t really thought about it, he just knew something bad was going to happen to Sherlock, and he needed to protect him. It was weird. He hadn’t even known the man for three days, and he already trusted and cared about him enough to save his life.

And even though Sherlock had said that he wasn’t going to take the pill, and that he had known John was going to shoot the cabbie all along, John knew he was being thanked somehow.

“ _C’mon, John. Let’s find a nice, quiet place,_ ” The Voice piped up, interrupting John’s thinking.

John got up as if hypnotized. He walked around the park, into the woods, and onto a small path leading to a small deserted area with a small lake and dock. He walked to the edge of the dock and sat down. He looked down at his reflection. His hair was messy, his eyes were red and puffy, and he had a big frown.

“I look pathetic,” he whispered.

“ _Yeah,_ ” The Voice agreed.

John dusted his revolver off. He held it up.

“ _Nobody loves you, John. Nobody. Do it. Just do it. It’ll be quick and easy. And if you lean over the edge of this dock, you’ll fall in, and nobody will find you. They won’t even notice in the first place that you’re gone._ ”

John sighed. He really wanted to, but… something deep, deep down told him not to.

“ _Do it._ ”

“No,” he said, shaking.

“ _Do it. Now._ ”

“No.” His voice was more firm.

“ _John. Nobody cares about you. You’re alone. Even your own sister hates having you around._ ”

“No. She doesn’t hate having me around. Sure, she hates me moping about, but she doesn’t hate _me_. I’m not doing it,” John said triumphantly, shoving his revolver back into his coat.

He waited for The Voice to reply, but it said nothing. He limped back to the park, hailed a cab, and went back to Harry’s flat.

 

~o~o~o~

Harriet sat on her sofa, waiting impatiently for her brother to get home. The cup of coffee in her hand trembled slightly.

She was going to finally tell John how she really felt about all of his moping. She was sick and tired of it, and she was going to set him straight.

John walked in, a giant grin on his face.

“John… Are you feeling all right?” Harry asked softly. Her brother nodded and sat next to her.

“I’m feeling great. How are you?”

Harry blinked and turned to him. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

 John nodded.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I need to talk to you. I think it’s about time for you to go back to living in 221B Baker Street. I’m tired of you moping around and making feel like it’s my fault when it’s not. I’m sorry, but you need to go.”

 John’s smile faded. He looked down at his lap and nodded. “I know.” Harry patted his knee and laid her head on his shoulder.

“I love you, Johnny,” she said, smiling. John smiled too, for Harry had never really said that before.

“I love you too, Harry.”

              

~o~o~o~

They spent a bit of the day discussing when John should move. It was decided that he would be moving near the end of September, almost a month away.

Then the brother and sister pulled out some old board games they used to play when they were young, and played. They watch old films and ate cookies and popcorn with extra butter.

Harry insisted on John getting out his old clarinet (which she still had, packed up in a dusty old box) and playing a song or two. He managed to play a squeaky variation of “Mary Had A Little Lamb,” then quit for the night.

They went to bed, stomachs full of popcorn and cookies, dreaming of the good old times when they were young.


	4. Violin

        *September*

 

            Molly’s phone rang loudly, making her shoot up in bed. She reached over and picked it up. “Hello?”

            “Molly, can I use some frosting and hand soap?” Sherlock’s voice came through the speaker. He sounded very excited.

            Molly groaned. “Sherlock why are you calling me at two o’clock in the morning?”

            “Well, I’m doing an… experiment requiring hand soap and frosting, and I was just wondering if-“

            “Sure. You can use as much as you need. Just don’t call me this early ever again unless it’s a real emergency,” she muttered, then hung up.

            Sherlock grinned and set his mobile down, grabbing the big bottle of hand soap in the bathroom and heading into the kitchen.

 

~o~o~o~

            The next morning, Molly woke up to a delicious smell wafting into her room. She got up and followed the smell into the kitchen, where Sherlock was asleep at the counter. His hands were covered in flour, and he was wearing one of her aprons. Molly thought this was absolutely adorable, and she just stood there for a moment, looking at him.

            She poked his arm and he didn’t respond, but when she shook him, his head snapped up.

            “Sherlock,” she said, “what are you doing in here?”

            He muttered something incoherent.

            “What was that?” Molly asked.

            “Baking a cake.”

            Molly blinked. “Why?”

            He sighed. “John’s moving back into 221B next week, and I thought you could throw a party for him. It occurred to me that we needed a cake when I was doing my experiment with the frosting and hand soap. You might want to clean the bathroom up, by the way. I made a pretty big mess in there with the frosting…”

            She shook her head, ignoring the last statement. “John’s moving back into 221B? How do you know?”

            “Lestrade.”

            Molly shrugged. “Speaking of Lestrade, why did you tell _him_  you were alive, and you won’t tell John? Lestrade was one of the three, wasn’t he?”

            Sherlock paused for a moment. “Well, Moriarty’s men are probably more focused on John than on Lestrade. Besides, we are being very careful about communicating.”

            She frowned. “Why would they be focusing more on John?”

            He paused again. “Because I spent a lot of time with him. We lived together.”

            She looked at him suspiciously. After a moment, she said “Fine. Now, about the party… Where will it be held?”

            “At 221B, obviously. Where else?” said Sherlock.

            She shrugged again. “So… where’s the cake?”

            Sherlock’s eyes widened. He rushed over to the oven, grabbed a mitt, and opened the door. He took out the cake pan and set it on the counter. It was a round chocolate cake. He gently poked it, and breathed in relief.

            Molly just stared at him.

            Seeing the look on her face, he said, “I thought I had burned it, but it’s perfect. Now, could you do me a favour and get the frosting?”

            Molly got it for him, and he put it on the cake. “Do you have any blue frosting? Good. Do you have a piping bag? With different tips? Excellent!”

            Sherlock was soon writing “Happy Move-in, John!” with the icing and putting a fluffy blue ridge around the edges of the cake.

            “There we go,” he said, once his masterpiece was finished.

            Molly was surprised. She didn’t know Sherlock was this artistic, and it made her attracted to him even more.

            “What are you staring at?” Sherlock asked, even though there was a knowing look in his eyes.

            ‘ _He just deduced what I was thinking_ ,” she thought.

            They stood in silence for a moment, until Molly spoke up. “So, is it going to be a surprise party?”

            Sherlock nodded. “Judging by how he looked when he last visited you, he wouldn’t let you throw a party there. But you don’t need _his_ permission. You’ll need Mrs. Hudson’s. I’m sure she’ll _love_ the idea.”

 

            ~o~o~o~

            Sure enough, she did. Molly told her that they were going to do it the next Monday when John moved in.

            She invited Harry, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Mike, and Mycroft.

            On the day of the party, they rushed to 221B to decorate. Finally, at seven thirty, John arrived with all of his things, Harry behind him. He turned on the lights, and everyone shouted, “SURPRIIISE!”

            John jumped about a foot, then gave a weak smile. He saw the cake on the table and tilted his head. “Sorry, but it’s not my birthday.”

            “We’re not celebrating your birthday, John. We’re celebrating that you’ve moved back in,” Harry said, patting her brother’s shoulder.

            His eyebrows flew up. “What? You—But—You threw a party _just_ because I’m moving in?”

            Mrs. Hudson grinned at him. “Of course. It’s been _really_ lonely without you around here, John, and I’m _very_ happy that you’re back.”

            “Also,” said Molly, “it means that you’re closer to letting go of Sherlock.”

            His face hardened, and his eyes dulled. “You guys really didn’t need to do this,” he said flatly, staring at the ground.

            “We _had_ to. For you,” his sister said softly, staring at him with care.

            John was silent. He looked up. His blue eyes scanned everyone’s faces.

            ‘ _Worry,_ ’ said Sherlock’s voice in his head. It wasn’t like The Voice, it was… friendlier.

            ‘ _Worry. Confusion. Amusement. You see, John, but you do not observe…_ ’

            John sighed. He limped over to his old armchair and lowered himself down. He surveyed Molly and gave her a look that said, “Go ahead.”

            She grinned at him, went over to the cake, and cut a slice. She got a plate and a fork, put the piece of cake on it, and set it on John’s lap.

            “Try it! I made it myself.”

            He sighed again and took a bite of the cake. It was absolutely _delicious_. “Wow,” he said. “This is _really_ good, Molly.”

            She smiled, but John didn’t see the sadness in her eyes.

            After he finished the cake, he had another, and everyone else got one.

            They chatted amongst themselves. Donovan and Lestrade came over to John and struck up a conversation.

            “So, Johnny, we’ve got a case for you,” the frizzy-haired woman said with a smirk.

            “No, thanks,” John said, getting up to help himself to more cake. Sally put her hands on her hips. She turned to Lestrade expectantly.

            “What am _I_ supposed to do?” he said.

            “Talk to him.”

            Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Where are the files?” he asked, holding out his hand. She reached into her purse, dug around for a bit, and drew the files out. He took them and opened them.

            When John sat back down with his cake, Lestrade started to read aloud.

            “Kayleigh Harrow, age 25, found her older brother dead in the flat she shared with him. No bullet wounds, no knife, poison, gas, or anything else. He seemed to be perfectly healthy.”

            “I already said no thanks. Not interested.”

            Sally frowned and walked away, her lips pursed.

            Lestrade rolled his eyes and looked around, his eyes resting on Mycroft, who was talking to Anderson.

            John realised what was going on, and smiled. “Mycroft, come here for a second,” he called.

            Lestrade fidgeted, but remained calm.

            Mycroft walked over to them, looking annoyed.

            John opened his mouth, but then covered it. “I was going to tell you something, but I just remembered that I have something to do. I guess you two will have to make small talk until I get back.”

            Lestrade raised his eyebrows as John got up and limped over to the hallway leading to the two bedrooms.

            Instead of going upstairs to his room, he went down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. He took a deep breath and slowly opened the door.

            The first thing John noticed was the dust. It was on the floor, the bed, the desk, the dresser; _everywhere_.

            He sighed, stepped in, and closed the door behind him. He dusted the bed off with his hands and sat down hesitantly.

            He’d only been in this room a couple of times, and it was the same as always. It was simple. There wasn’t much in it.

            Only a few things indicated that someone had actually lived there. There were some clothes in the dresser and a few folders on the desk, but that was it. No pictures on the desk, none on the wall, no sign that he had any friends or family.

            John went to the desk and picked up the two folders. One was labeled ‘Favourite Cases’ and the other ‘Confidential.’ He set the latter beside him on the bed, and opened the first.

            He only read the tops of the pages.

            “A Study in Pink,” he read aloud. “The Blind Banker. The Great Game. The Geek Interpreter. The Speckled Blonde. The Aluminum Crutch. The Six Thatcher’s. The Woman. The Hounds of Baskerville.”

            John turned to the next page. He shut his eyes tight. “The Reichenbach Fall,” he whispered, the shut the folder.

            He was about to open the other folder when there was a loud slam from the other room. He put the folder down, left the room, and went to see what had happened.

            What he saw confused him. Molly, Mike, Harry, Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade were staring at the door. Mycroft wasn’t there.

            John frowned. “What happened?”

            “Mycroft and Lestrade got in a row,” Harry said.

            “About what?” John asked, looking at Lestrade.

            The detective inspector sighed, avoiding John’s gaze. After a few seconds, he said, “Sherlock.”

            The room was silent. Everyone but Lestrade was looking at John. He was staring at Lestrade, his eyes cold and empty.

            John turned and limped back to Sherlock’s room after a minute. He was about to open the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

            “John,” a soft voice said.

            He turned around, expecting Molly, but it was his sister who was behind him. Her eyes were soft and sad. She looked back at the sitting room, and then at John, who sighed and followed her back to the room.

            “I think I should get home. I’ve got a bit of work to do,” Mike said when John entered the room. Everyone else but Harry and Molly nodded and followed Mike out the door. Mrs. Hudson patted John on the shoulder and smiled sadly before she departed.

            Soon, John, Harry, and Molly were the only ones left. They stood (sat, in Molly’s case) in silence for a moment before Molly spoke.

            “John…” she started, but he raised his hand for her to stop. She ignored him. “I’m sorry… Everything went wrong,” she whispered, close to tears.

            Harry walked over to her and patted her shoulder. “It isn’t your fault. It’s that Mycroft bloke’s fault, snapping on Greg like that.”

            John just stood there, feeling miserable. The happy state that he had been in in the previous weeks was long gone. He was back to depression.

            Molly sniffed a little and got up, thinking of how bored Sherlock probably was. “Well,” she said softly. “I’ve got some… things to do at home, so… Bye then.” She headed for the door.

            “Wait, Molly,” John called. “I need to give you something.”

            She stopped and turned around. John limped into the hallway. After a minute or two, he came back with a case in his arms. He carefully handed it to Molly, who looked at him in confusion.

            “Sherlock’s violin,” explained John, trying not to look at it. “I’d like you to have it. I feel like I should give it to you for some odd reason. I hope you… enjoy it.”

            Molly smiled sadly. “Thank you, John,” she said, and went to the door.

            After she was gone, Harry and John stood together. “I have to go. It’s getting late,” Harry said, turning to leave. “Bye, John.”

            “Goodbye, Harry.”

 

            ~o~o~o~

            The taxi ride was long and cold. When Molly finally got to her house, she was greeted by an unexpected sight: Sherlock was asleep on the sofa, at least ten empty coffee mugs on the coffee table. Molly didn’t want to know what happened, so she just put Sherlock’s violin on the kitchen table and headed to the hallway.

            Before she could get there, Sherlock woke up. He observed her for a second, then said, “Hi, Molly. What happened at 221B that made you so glum?” He already knew, but he just needed her to confirm.

            She just shook her head and sighed. She came back into the room and sat across from him. He stared at her expectantly.

            “I ruined the party,” she said, sniffling.

            “No you didn’t.”

            “Fine. Your _brother_ ruined the party.”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

            Molly didn’t even want to know how he had deduced that.

            He sighed. “Nevermind. In the meantime, why is my violin on the kitchen table?”

            “John gave it to me.”

            He got up and walked over to the table, slowly opened the case, and took out his most prized possession. After staring at it for a few minutes, he put it back in the case and closed it.

            “Sherlock, I’m going to bed. Goodnight,” Molly muttered, yawning.

            “Goodnight,” Sherlock replied, and stood there until he heard Molly’s door shut. He took his violin out again and went outside.

 

            ~o~o~o~

            John climbed into his cold bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, thinking about the violin. He missed waking up in the middle of the night and hearing its music. He sighed, wishing he could hear it again.

            John thought his mind was playing tricks on him, because when he was almost asleep, he thought he heard the sweet singing of a violin.


	5. The Best Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don’t like this chapter… It’s SUPER cheesy… But, I AM the Cheese Meister after all... So, here you go, one chapter with extra cheese…
> 
> (P.S.: This chapter was inspired by many songs; the only two I can name are ‘The Best Day’ by Taylor Swift and ‘Over You’ by Miranda Lambert… So, yeah…)

Molly opened the front door of her house and stepped inside. She was welcomed by a calm, soft, and beautiful song swelling from the guest room.

It had been a long, stressful day at the morgue, and she found the music relaxing. She had the urge to go to Sherlock’s room and thank him, but then that would make him stop playing, and she didn’t want that.

So, she went into the hallway and stood in front of the door, listening. She wondered if he had composed this song.

After a few minutes, she opened the door as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb the violinist. He had his back to her, facing the window. There was no music in front of him, so he must have had it memorized. He looked like he was really getting into it, and he didn’t seem to notice Molly come in.

It wasn’t until the song was over that he turned around. He didn’t look shocked to see her.

Molly just stood there for a moment, then said, “That was beautiful.” The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up briefly.

“Thank you,” he said, getting his violin case. He put the instrument in and shut it.

“Did you write that?” she asked. “What’s it called?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t have one. I composed it one night for John. He was feeling under-the-weather, and it relaxed him and helped him fall asleep.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I really like it. Why haven’t you given it a name?”

“I haven’t thought of one yet.”

“Well, maybe we should try and think of one now,” she suggested. Sherlock nodded in agreement. So, they put their heads together and thought.

After a good half-hour of discussing things, they still couldn’t think of a name. So they left it untitled. Sherlock then played it again, lulling Molly to sleep on the sofa in the sitting room, dreaming of grassy clearings and fluffy white sheep prancing about.

 

~o~o~o~

A few weeks later, John Watson woke up with dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He had developed the habit of crying in his sleep. Ever since he moved back into 221B, he had been having the same nightmare over and over. It wasn’t Afghanistan. It was the fall. He dreamed that he was Sherlock, and he saw the pavement fly up in front of him and he hit it, a loud CRACK sounding.

He had this nightmare every night, and he always had tear tracks on his face. He was really getting sick of it. He couldn’t handle one more nightmare.

John was also noticing little things around the flat that reminded him of Sherlock. He had never really appreciated the small things, but he vowed that today, he would try to remember the small things he loved about his flat mate.

First, he looked around the flat, finding things that proved that the consulting detective had lived there. He found a couple of nicotine patch wrappings, and put them on the coffee table. The he found a packet of sugar in the drawer of the desk in Sherlock’s room, among his dress shirts. He put that on the table, too.

A curly black hair was added, and so was a piece of blue thread and a small, black button. A violin string, a couple of test tubes, and a ball point pen were also added.

John looked at the small pile, a slight smile on his face. He went back to Sherlock’s room and got the “Favourite Cases” folder out again. He made a cup of tea and a cup of coffee (black, two sugars). He got Sherlock’s coat and scarf out and put them in their owner’s armchair. John set the coffee down on the table in front of the chair and sat in his own chair.

He opened the folder and read the first page, “A Study in Pink.”

‘This was my first case with my new flat mate, Dr. John H. Watson. Remarkably, he is fascinated by my deducing skills. Instead of telling me to put a sock in it when I deduce things like most people do, he just says, “Fantastic,” or “Amazing,” or “Incredible.”

‘Anyway, this case was quite interesting…”

 

John finished the case and moved on to the next one, “The Blind Banker.”

 

‘I can’t believe the names John gave these cases. They’re so ridiculous, it’s not even funny. A toddler could have come up with better names. The only reason I use the names is that I myself have no idea what to call them.’

 

He finished that one, and went on to “The Great Game.”

Eventually, he got to the last case, “The Reichenbach Fall.” Instead of Sherlock making fun of John for choosing poor titles, he was more serious.

 

‘One of the best cases I’ve ever done. John seems to be annoyed with the papers. They always follow us around now, taking pictures and asking questions. We try to ignore them, but sometimes John gets too miffed and snaps at them.’

 

John closed the folder after reading the case and put it next to the pile. He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt like there was a giant hole in his stomach. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he blinked them away.

He just wished that he could see Sherlock one last time. He had so much to say.

John wanted to tell him how good a friend he had been. Sure, he could be annoying, but he was a great friend.

There were so many things John hadn’t told his flat mate. Like how much he had loved him (as a friend, of course).

John missed waking up at 2:30 A.M. to the violin singing, and sometimes to a small explosion cause by one of Sherlock’s “experiments.” He missed hearing gunfire and rushing to the sitting room, only to find Sherlock giving the wall a pounding.

He wanted to hear Sherlock groaning about how bored he was, and he wanted to smell the odd fumes coming from the test tubes in the kitchen (even though that was very dangerous).

He wished that when he opened the door to the fridge, he would find random, bloody body parts in plastic bags.

As he thought about these things, he decided to share his thoughts with Sherlock. Well, not with Sherlock, but with Sherlock’s grave.

So, he planned to visit the grave later that day.

In the meantime, he looked around for a box he could put all of the Sherlock memorabilia in. He found a small, wooden box. All of the pile fit perfectly inside. He set next to the coffee cup. He took a sip of his tea.

“Now what to do?” he muttered, twiddling his thumbs. He pulled out his phone to see if he had any pictures. He found some pictures Sherlock had taken of corpses when his own phone had lost power.

John went to the videos, not expecting to find anything. He almost missed the video showing him asleep on the couch. He played it.

Sherlock was obviously filming. “John’s asleep,” he said, and real John felt a pang. It was strange hearing Sherlock’s voice outside of his head, and without a cold tone.

Sherlock reached out and shook video John’s shoulder. He didn’t wake up.

“Okay, good, he’s in a deep sleep. Now I can finally do this… I’m only filming it so I can make fun of him when he finds it.”

Sherlock turned the phone camera around. He was wearing safety goggles and a lab coat. His eyes were bright with excitement.

He reached down and picked up a large bucket. There was a clear liquid inside of it. “If I stick John’s hand in this,” Sherlock said, moving towards the sleeping doctor, “it’ll turn bright green!” He chuckled, and then turned the camera back to John. “I’ll wash it off before he wakes up, though, so he won’t know unless he watches this.” He put the bucket down and took hold of John’s arm.

John jerked awake, startling Sherlock. “What are you doing with my phone?” John asked. He looked down and saw the bucket. He rolled his eyes. “Are you really  trying to play the hand-in-a-bowl-of-warm-water trick on me again?”

Sherlock paused. “Oh, no! You caught me red-handed, John. And I thought it was going to work this time. Oh, well. Here’s your phone back.”

The video stopped.

Real John chuckled softly. He remembered that. He hadn’t realized Sherlock was filming, just assumed he was texting Mycroft or Lestrade.

This brought back the memory of John having to reach into Sherlock’s pocket to get his phone for him on many occasions. John laughed. He missed Sherlock’s laziness.

He put his phone away and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. He felt more tears trying to free themselves, but still held them back.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door hesitantly. John sighed, got up, and answered. Mrs. H came in, looking around. She had a tray of biscuits in her hands. She spotted the box, Sherlock’s coat and scarf, and the coffee. She looked over at John, then back at Sherlock’s things, then back at John, and then shrugged. She set the ray on the table. “Eat.”

He smiled, but shook his head. “You’re my landlady, not my housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, hush, John. That doesn’t matter right now.”

He crossed his arms, but sat down on the sofa anyway. Mrs. H sat beside him and handed him a biscuit. He took a tiny bite and swallowed.

“Thanks. That’s all I want.”

“John, you haven’t eaten a decent meal in days. I’m starting to worry. Are you feeling ill? You are as thin as a twig. Now eat.” She pushed his hand to his mouth.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson. Not hungry.”

She sighed. “All right. If you’re starving later today, don’t blame me,” she said, taking the tray and leaving. John waited for the door to shut, then drank some tea. He sighed, looking at the coffee. He picked it up and carried it to the kitchen, and with shaking hands, poured it out in the sink.

The dark brown liquid swirled down the drain, and John was drained also. He gripped the edge of the sink, the floor swaying underneath him. He became cold, and yet sweat poured down his face. He tried to steady himself, turning on the water and splashing his face. After a minute, he was able to stand again. He limped back to the sitting room and sighed. He picked up Sherlock’s coat and scarf, the wooden box, and put on his own coat.

Mrs. Hudson was in the hallway when John left. She took one look at his solemn face and knew where he was going. She smiled sadly and patted his shoulder as he passed.

John hailed a cab and gave the driver directions to the graveyard. Once he got there, he paid the driver, gathered his things, and set of for the grave.

The black marble reflected the light of the afternoon sun. There were several bouquets of flowers by it, of all different colours. John sighed, spotting a blue bouquet that he had left a while ago. He looked around, taking deep, calming breaths.

“Well,” he said, his voice wavering. “Hello again. I… I brought you some… some stuff.”

He traced the name engraved on the marble with a shaking finger, setting the box, scarf, and coat in front of the grave. He sat down slowly, being careful with his leg.

“Yeah, leg’s getting worse and worse. My therapist keeps calling. I ignore her. She doesn’t get me, like Mycroft said all that time ago.” He chuckled sadly. “I found an old video today, Sherlock. And I found a lot of your things, too. They’re in this box. Just random hairs and buttons and all of the little things you left behind.

“They… They reassure me. They help me prove that you weren’t a fraud, that you were real and that nobody can convince me otherwise. They’re memories of my best friend, of you, of the best times of my life.

“That video I was talking about… Do you remember when you tried to turn my hand green when I was sleeping?” He laughed. “Ooh, and remember that one little café in… in Surrey, was it? Well, anyway, remember, I nicked some of those little strawberry jam packets and accidentally left them in your seat. When you sat down, they exploded all over your bum! That was ridiculous. How I miss you, Sherlock.” He sighed. “You have no idea how much.”

John opened the little box, smiling sadly at its contents. He closed it, and then dug a small hole with his hands. He put the box in it, and put dirt on top of it, patting it down.

“There,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Now… Uhm. I guess… I guess that’s it… Wait. No. No it isn’t.” He stood up, grimacing.

“I’ve tried to stop thinking about you. I’ve tried so hard these past weeks. But…” He rubbed his face. The tears were flowing freely now. “I just can’t. Everywhere I go, something always reminds me of you. Whether it’s a person, a place, a food, or whatever. It reminds me of you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me…

“Well… To get off that subject… Sherlock, it was great living with you. It feels nice to reminisce on the good times with you.” He grinned, wiping away a tear. “I’ve had the best day with you today.”


	6. Sweets

 

It was late. Mrs. Hudson had gone shopping for Halloween candy, and John was curled up on the sofa, watching telly. A cup of coffee rested untouched on the coffee table. It was a bit nippy in 221B, so the army doctor was under several blankets.

He was watching one of those cheesy horror films, munching on crisps. A teenager was just getting hacked apart by an axe murderer when Mrs. Hudson walked in. John quickly turned it off, then pretended to be asleep.

"I'm home, John. I got you some candy to pass out; you're going to help me."

John sighed. "Mrs. Hudson, I  _really_ don't feel like sitting and passing out candy all night next week."

"Oh, John, don't be like that. You'll like seeing the crazy costumes kids come up with. Last year, there was a zombie ballerina! Could you imagine it?" She shook her head.

John chuckled a bit. "Fine. I'll do it."

Mrs. H smiled. She put the candy on the counter and left.

John turned the film back on. The murderer was laughing as he finished killing the teenager's boyfriend. He then moved on to killing everyone else in sight.

After the film ended, John limped out of the sitting room with a big grin on his face. He remembered watching that film with Sherlock, who criticized everything about it.

As John limped down the hallway to the stairs, he paused by Sherlock's room, his grin fading. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

He chuckled softly, his eyes watering. He stepped into the room, looking around, taking it in. He went to the bed, drew back the covers, and cautiously got in.

The bed was cold, of course. John curled up under the covers, shivering a tiny bit. After a little while, it warmed up, and he grabbed a pillow from the floor. He pressed his face against it and inhaled.

A rush of memories came into his mind with the scent of his best friend, but he ignored them, just breathing it all in as if his life depended on it.

 

~o~o~o~

The week seemed to fly by. John watched more horror films and Mrs. Hudson bought more candy. Halloween was upon them quickly.

John and Mrs. H sat in the entryway of the flat, waiting for their first visitors, candy bowls in their laps.

After ten minutes, there was a soft knock on the door. John opened it. Three children dressed as ghosts stood on the doorstep. "Trick or treat!" one of them shouted, and they held out their pillowcases. John gave them some candy and the left, giggling.

The next group consisted of a unicorn, a bumblebee, a dinosaur, and a ballerina,. Two teenagers dressed as zombies came to the door next. Mrs. Hudson refused to give the, candy, since they were bloody and looked like  _real_ zombies. John had to go comfort her, for she had gone to her flat and was hiding in the closet.

After she was ready to go hand out candy again, about ten kids came at once. They all shouted "TRICK OR TREAT!!!" and dove for the candy, except for one. He was obviously younger than the other children. He just stood at the back of the crowd until everyone else had their candy. He stepped forward.

The boy was wearing a plain striped jumper and jeans. His hair was normal; scruffy and brown. Nothing indicated that he was in a costume.

"And what are you dressed up as?" Mrs. H asked, holding out her candy bowl.

The boy took a while to answer. "John H. Watson," he said, taking a small taffy from the bowl.

John froze. Mrs. H looked shocked for a moment. The boy gave them a small smile.

He really did look like John. The same hair, same blue eyes, same jumper, same face shape.

_Okay... This is kind of weird,_ John thought, smiling awkwardly. The boy mirrored his exact facial expression, shifting his feet.

"Why re you dressed as him? He's not famous or anything, just a normal bloke," John said.

The boy just stared at him, as if he was reading John's mind. He tilted his head to one side, smiling a little. His answer sent a chill down John's spine.

"The Voice told me to."

Miniature John turned around slowly and walked away.

Mrs. Hudson blinked. "John, I think I'm going to bed. Would you kindly stay and pass out candy? I don't want the children to get less of it."

John sighed, then nodded. "Okay. But you owe me one now, Mrs. H," he said jokingly. She smiled at him and turned around, going to her flat.

John repositioned himself on his uncomfortable chair, wincing as he hit his leg. "I really should do something about this bloody thing," he mumbled.

About an hour passed. Only a few groups came to the door. John was getting very bored. He was about to quit for the night when there was another knock on the door. He opened it up, putting on a fake smile. A few children stood there. There was a fairy, a witch, and a boy dressed in a suit.

"Trick or treat!"

John gave them candy, and they left. The boy stayed behind. He had a mischievous smile on his face, chewing gum. John tilted his head. "Who're you dressed as?"

"Jim Moriarty," the kid said, blowing a bubble with his gum, sucking it back in, and popping it.

John narrowed his eyes and observed the boy. Sure enough, he looked just like Moriarty. Dark hair, dark eyes, same face shape, even the same suit.

Little Jim shoved his hands into his pockets, chomping his gum loudly. "So, what have you been up to, Johnny boy? Seen Sherlock around here lately?"

John frowned. "Sherlock's dead."

"Oh, really? I didn't know that. I heard he was around here; even saw him."

"What?"

"Yeah. Little Sherlock's been runnin' around here for a bit. Can't believe you haven't seen him yet," the boy said, looking around.

John just stared at him. "Why did you dress up as Moriarty? Are you one of his spies or something?"

The boy laughed. "No, I'm not one of his spies, he's dead, remember? The Voice told me to." He walked away, blowing another bubble. 

John rubbed his face. "How? How can this be happening? This is just.. just  _mental._ I must be going mental..."

He sighed for the umpteenth time, looking at the candy bowl in his lap. He got a taffy and unwrapped it. He hadn't had one in a long time. The candy was sweet and chewy, John's favourite kind. He realized that Miniature John had also taken taffy and swallowed, his stomach rolling.

A few more groups of kids came to the door, dressed as ghosts or princesses or zombies or pirates.

A knock on the door came just as the clock struck midnight. 

A single boy stood in front of John when he opened the door, and he didn't have to ask what he was dressed up as.

Curly black hair covered his head and framed his high-cheek-boned face. His pale blue-grey eyes stared up at John. A blue scarf was wrapped around his throat, and he wore a purple dress shirt under a long black coat.

John just stared at him, unsure of what to do. "Hello," he finally said after a few minutes.

_"Hello, John,"_ The Voice said in his head.

John blinked. "Are you talking to me inside my head?"

The boy nodded slowly, his face blank and cold.

" _Indeed,_ " The Voice said for him.

"This is a bit creepy... Why is this happening?"

" _Because it needs to happen._ "

"Why?"

The Voice was silent. John crossed his arms."Do you want some candy?" he asked, holding out the bowl.

" _No_."

"Am I going mental?"

No answer. John groaned. He set the candy bowl next to him on the ground.

"So why are kids dressing up as me, Moriarty, and Sherlock?"

_"We're all connected, somehow. You won't ever figure it out; don't try._ "

John frowned. "How do you know I won't?"

" _Because I know you, John. I know you more than I know myself._ "

John froze. "What do you want?"

" _You'll see soon enough._ "

The boy blinked, picked up the candy bowl, and turned away. After he took a few step, he looked over his shoulder.

" _Goodbye, John,_ " The Voice said, and the boy walked on.

John stood up and shut the door. He had had enough. He went up to the flat, poured the cold tea out, sat on the sofa, and turned on the telly.

"Doctor Who" was on. It was series one, episode nine, "The Empty Child." John turned it off immediately. He didn't want to see more creepy children.

He sighed, leaning back and pulling a blanket over himself. The flat was still a little cold.

After a while, he fell asleep, dreaming of taffy, snow, and Sherlock.


End file.
